


Monmouth

by hermitized



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermitized/pseuds/hermitized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe: Burr is shot in the shoulder at the Battle of Monmouth. Hamilton goes to see him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monmouth

“Hamilton.”

“Sir!”

Alexander stands, setting down his pen. Washingon turns to look at him. “Don’t forget to write the summary report of the casualty lists.”

“Yes, sir. I’m nearly finished with this letter to Congress.”

“Good.” Washington looks tired. "I'll be back soon." He sighs, and exits the room.

His fingers are stinging, his joints throbbing. When he bends his digits, the knuckles crack and pop. He can’t help but let out a sigh as well.

Back to work then.

The concluding paragraph is easy. Fortunately, it’s not hard to grab back on to the flow he’d had before Washington had called him. It doesn’t take him long at all to finish.

After putting the letter in an envelope, and setting it aside to be stamped and sealed, Alexander pulls the stack of dead, missing, and injured lists towards him.

It’s been a rough day.

Tally marks are people. He wishes he could forget. He hopes he never does. Sometimes, a name flies past him that he recognizes. There are a few he keeps an eye out for, and breathes sigh of relief when he doesn’t see them.

He’s nearly done.

His tracking hand pauses on the list. He blinks, sinks back, rubs his eyes. He takes a deep breath, then leads forward again.

Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Burr. Shot, in the shoulder.

Breath in, breath out. Keep working. Always keep working.

When he presents the summary report to the General, his hands are shaking. Washington takes the stack of paper. He looks at Hamilton, skims the front page, then meets his eyes again with new understanding.

“Thank you, Hamilton.” He sets the report on his desk. “You finished the letter?”

Alexander hands that to him as well. He puts his hands behind his back, tries to wet his drying mouth. Washington stamps it with his seal, place is it on the stack, and says, “Thank you, Alexander. Give these to the courier, then you’re dismissed.”

Ordinarily, Alexander would ask if there was anything else the General needs him to do. Today, he nods, says, “Thank you sir,” and strides out onto the field.

Even though the sun is setting, it’s still burning hot, so hot it’ll dry out your insides.

What a terrible battle. What a terrible day.

Taking off his coat, and draping it over his arm, he goes to find a horse. Surely the General would want to convey his regards to his injured officers. Surely he’d have asked Hamilton to do just that, were he not so worn out.

It’s a long ride to the hospital. He’d better remember to bring water.

#

He’s lucky to be alive.

The bullet passed clean through his shoulder, separating a lot of vessels but not hitting any major organs. It hurts like hell, and his mouth is so dry it’s hard to swallow, hard to breath, but if he’s treated right, he’ll live.

Aaron lays on the thin cot, shoulder and back heavily bandaged, trying to sleep. Trying to dream. The nurses gave him some whiskey, before the doctor came to sew him up. He could use another shot. He could really use some sleep.

Footsteps jar him out of his thoughts and attempts. He doesn’t sit up, or turn. He pretends to be resting comfortably.

Nurse Steward says, “He needs to rest, sir.”

“I understand.”

_Alexander._

He’s facing away from him. He opens one eye, takes a deep breath. Alexander places something on the medicine try beside his head. “Rest well, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Aaron squeezes his eyes shut. Footsteps recede, and it is quiet again.

After a few minutes of trying to fall back into internal peace, he rolls onto his other side, and opens his eyes. There’s a letter, in a sealed envelope, sitting on the doctor’s instrument tray. He picks it up.

It’s in Alexander’s handwriting, conveying gratitude and well-wishes from the general himself. It is sealed, but not signed. Alexander can only do so much.

Aaron fold it up, leans over to pick up his bloody uniform jacket, wincing. He slips the letter into the left front pocket.

Alexander came to see him.

Why should he have expected any less?

#

He knows he needs to rest too.

Alexander lays on his bedroll, arm tucked under his thin pillow, more support. He tries to relax. He tries to let all his thoughts go, and just be in the moment.

He never can quite do it. He’s always tossing and turning, thinking, thinking.

No doubt he’ll keep Eliza up, when he finally lays by her side again. Poor Eliza. He should write to her.

_In the morning._

He needs to rest. The best thing he can do right now is rest.

Burr is damn blessed, with the way that bullet passed through his shoulder. It’ll hurt like hell, worse, but he can survive it. He’d probably be sitting up and talking, if this horrid heat hadn’t gone and done its dirty work on him.  
Alexander realizes then that his stomach is churning. The pressing, glowing sun is playing its little game on him too. He sits up, drinking thirstily from his canteen.

He hadn’t seen his face, Burr had been facing away, but he saw the bandage, thick with fluid, packed around his shoulder, stretched across his back to maintain support. His breathing was ragged, but steady enough. Maybe he was sleeping, maybe he was just pretending.  
Either way, he didn’t need to talk to Hamilton right now.

Tomorrow perhaps. Tomorrow morning.

_Rest._

The days are too long, these past few months.. Too long, too hot, too much of everything all at once. They have to turn the tide, somehow.

Turn the tide.

There’s so much work still to be done.

#

Alexander’s footsteps do not surprise him so much the second time around. This time, Aaron sits up, settle heavily against the pillows, clutching his papers in his lap. Alexander smiles, when he sees him awake. “Lieutenant Colonel Burr, Sir.”

“Alexander.” He smiles, motions for him to sit. “I received the General’s well-wishes. Delivered by you, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Convey to him my thanks, if you would.”

Pain stabs his shoulder, his chest, his neck. He tries to take a deep breath. He tries to keep himself stable and calm.

Alexander sits, leans forward, hands resting on the edge of the cot. “Hurts?”

Aaron nods, tries to wet his lips. “Like you wouldn’t believe. Like fire.”

With a smirk, Alexander leans down and lifts up a bottle of whiskey. “Can I offer you a drink, sir?”

They drink straight from the bottle. The glass rests cool on his lips, condensation mercifully moistening them. On the first gulp, his head buzzes. After the second and third, his shoulder goes numb.

He passes the bottle back to Alexander. Their fingers brush. “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble.” He takes a long swig himself, then caps the bottle. “The doctors and nurses, they’re doing their best, but after Monmouth they’re swamped.”

“Aye.” He tries to swallow again. “I could...I could use some water.”

Alexander passes him a canteen. Full, wet, and cold, he lets it nourish his parched mouth and throat, soothing his cracking, sore lips. As he does, he considers the facts.

Alexander was worried about him. Alexander is taking care of him. Alexander...cares about him.

“Thank you,” he says again, as he passes the canteen.

Again, Alexander says, “You’re welcome. It’s no trouble, that's the truth.”

Aaron closes his eyes. “Something needs to happen,” he says. “Soon. We need to find an advantage.”

“I know.”

Reaching over, Alexander places his hand over Aaron’s, just for a moment, then pulls away. “I have to get going. The General will certainly be looking for me.” He stands. “I wish you a speedy recovery."

“And you, safe travels.”

They nod to each other, and then Alexander is gone.

Falling back into exhaustion, Aaron considers why it is, that Alexander would take the time out of what is no doubt a jammed schedule to come and see him. Why, wherever he goes, whatever happens to him, he always seems to come across Alexander Hamilton again and again and again.


End file.
